


we'll have the life we knew we would

by thewalrus_said



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Epistolary, M/M, YOI Secret Santa 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 20:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said
Summary: Viktor,I dithered so long on just the opening to this letter, did you know that? Specifically, whether I should open with ‘Dear.’ Are you my dear? Have we shared enough to be dear to each other? You were my dear that night, of that I am sure. I believe I even said it. “My dear,” I called you, and you smiled like the sun in response.





	we'll have the life we knew we would

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GwenChan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/gifts).



> I hope you like this, GwenChan! Happy holidays!

February 3, 1879

Viktor,

I dithered so long on just the opening to this letter, did you know that? Specifically, whether I should open with ‘Dear.’ Are you my dear? Have we shared enough to be dear to each other? You were my dear that night, of that I am sure. I believe I even said it. “My dear,” I called you, and you smiled like the sun in response.

One letter, you begged of me. Commit to one letter, and you would commit to one response, and we would see what happened next. One letter, thought I. How inconsequential a thing to commit to, how little effort it will take to write one letter. Foolish. I have spent two days on the preceding words alone, and I am exhausted from the effort. If I had known, would I have agreed?

There is, of course, the possibility that you woke sober and regretful, and that I will not receive the response I was promised. I have considered this. As you may have surmised, it did not have as strong an impact on my decision as perhaps it should have. I gave my word and so I shall keep it. I believe you enough of a gentleman to at least not ruin me, if I have made the wrong choice.

The inn is busy. Your departure did not pull all the life from Japan, only from my own lungs. There are two parties in residence, one from the other side of the island, and one, I believe, from Switzerland. Possibly it is instead from Sweden, I confess I did not pay much attention when they arrived. I was distracted by other thoughts.

This is a short letter, I am afraid. I have too much to say and not enough sense to discern the wise from the reckless. You shall have to be contented with what matter I have managed to put down. I shall tell you a secret, in apology: I would have agreed, had I known the struggle ahead of me. I shall tell you another: Yes, you are dear to me.

I am owed one response, and I shall await it with all the patience that can be expected of me.

Yuuri

\--

April 15, 1879

My dearest Yuuri,

I am so glad you wrote. I have always believed you to be a man of your word, but I confess, in the months it took for your letter to arrive, part of me began to doubt, to fear. I hope you will forgive me. In recompense, you shall receive the response you are owed, and one other; I could not keep from writing to you while I waited.

What I have no apology for is that it was I who insisted that my party leave before you woke. I feared that if I saw your face and you loved me still, I would not be able to leave. If I saw your face and you did not, it likely would have killed me. I should have stood and faced my fate like a man, but cowardice ruled the day. I wanted my final memory of you to be you as you were on that night, flushed and smiling and loving. The sight shall sustain me until such time as we are able to be together again. The sight, and your letters, for I hope you shall not limit yourself to the one you promised, as I have been unable to limit myself. As you know, for both letters shall arrive together.

No doubt you have learned this by now, but the second party in your inn was from Sweden, not Switzerland. Your mother mentioned they were expected when I made my farewells to her. If you crave a party from Switzerland, simply say the word. I have a contact in Switzerland who will be much anxious to meet you, once my most recent letter to him arrives. I hope you will not mind that I told him of you. Not the details, the details are for us alone; merely that I met someone who turned my life on end. I assure you he is sympathetic and discreet, when necessary, and he will not come to seek you out unless I tell him he is welcome. I say he is a contact, but in truth he is as close a friend as I have ever managed to make.

You should know this about me, dearest one: I am a lonely man. I hope this fact will not put you off. I have one business contact turned friend, and I am somewhat close with a young cousin, but that is all the connections I can provide. Aside from my father, whom you have met. I am not an advantageous match, I am afraid; I am wealthy, yes, but isolated. Please, do not hold this against me.

I sympathize with your struggle; this letter, although of a moderate length, has taken a long while to pen, and I would end your suspense as soon as possible. Write to me again, and again, my dear, and I shall promise you as many responses as you care to receive.

Viktor

\--

June 13, 1879

Dear Viktor,

Forgive my pugnacious beginning, but I must take issue with your last point. We are an exceedingly well-matched pair, you and I. For while you bring money but no family, I can bring people in excess, but very little money. My mother and father you have already met, and in passing my sister, although she was busy with her studies while your party was in residence. I can bring also a brother, of a kind; we met at school some five years ago, and he is the only person besides you with whom I keep regular correspondence.

Yes, for I intend to take you up on your offer of infinite responses. Now that I know your feelings have not faded with time and a clear head, you shall find me as regular a correspondent as you could hope for. I am surrounded by people, family and strangers alike, but I too am lonely. Again, we are well matched.

In return for your friend, I have told mine of you. No doubt he will contrive some means of travel to St. Petersburg, no matter what I tell him; all I can hope for is that he will warn me first, that I might warn you. He is less discreet than we might hope for, but he would die rather than put me in danger, so I have no real fears. Not on that front.

It has taken me some time to forgive you for slipping out in the night, but I have managed it, so you may be easy in regards to that issue. Now that I know your reasoning, I understand it. Silence on a point too often fills me with fear, so I will beg of you to please be open with me, and I shall be open with you. All we have is letters; they shall have to be full enough to live off of.

I shall write to you again. Shall I say that at the end of every letter, to put your mind at ease? It is simple enough to do. My family’s inn is small, but prosperous enough that I shall never want for the ink to say it. I shall write to you again, Viktor, and again, and again.

Yuuri

\--

August 20, 1879

Yuuri,

Please do reassure me at the end of every letter. Seeing your promise made me smile more than I have managed to since leaving you; call me a weak man, but I would have that for myself every four months.

In return, I promise to be open with you, as open as I can manage it. I would not have you filled with fear for one moment, not for any reason, and certainly not regarding my feelings for you. They will remain constant forever, that I know, and I shall reassure you in turn as often as you wish. My heart is yours; I have no intention of taking it back at any point. You may do with it what you like, although I will entreat you to be kind to it, for it is the only one I have.

Tell me more about your family. I would know every detail there is to know about you. In exchange, if you wish it, I will tell you everything there is to know about my life. We know each other so little, for feeling so strongly, and I would rectify that. Tell me everything. Start with your friend, should you need a prompt.

Your Viktor

\--

October 25, 1879

My Viktor,

I fear there is not much to tell, although what matter there is to my life I will gladly share. My friend’s name is Phichit; as I said before, we met at school. I was educated on the Continent, which is how we came to be at the same school, for he lives in Siam. He is in many ways the opposite of me: where I am shy, he is outgoing; where I am meek, he is bold. I believe you would like him.

My days are not very varied; I live and work at the inn, as you already know. My father does the cooking, my mother does the administrative work. I mainly clean and maintain the hot spring, except when my father needs help in the kitchen. The only changes come when Russian businessmen come to stay and sweep me off my feet. You need not fear; this has only happened once.

We are friends with the family who live down the road, and when it gets cold enough in winter we all go ice skating together, and come back to warm ourselves in the hot spring. My mother’s old schoolmate comes and drinks with us no matter the season. It is a very small, contained life I lead, and I am, for the most part, contented with it. Now it is your turn. You may start with your friend, if you wish.

Yuuri

\--

January 1, 1880

Yuuri,

Your life sounds lovely. I am glad to hear of it, and to hear that I am a notable enough part to warrant a mention.

I will not start with my friend, I think; he is a character worth a novel in his own right, and I will not do him justice. My own days are more varied than yours, although not, I think, more interesting for it. As you already know, my father owns a very profitable copper mine, and he is grooming me to take over within the next year or so. My days consist of meetings, meetings, and meetings, with all sorts of investors and workers. I find these meetings to be very interesting, but I am aware that those not in the industry would likely find them exceedingly dull, so I will not go into too much detail.

I have a cousin, Yuri, whom I call Little Yura to vex him; there is over a decade’s difference in our ages. He is close with my father, and so with me by extension, although if you ask him, I am the font of all that is inconvenient and disagreeable in the world. I expect he will take over the business after I am done with it; Father already shows signs of grooming him too. If it is possible, I think Little Yura is just as lonely than I am, although if you asked him he would deny it. We are very alike, in that respect. Although, I have you now, so perhaps he is lonelier. It is impossible to be sad for very long when I know that you will write me another letter.

Viktor

\--

March 9, 1880

Viktor,

Indeed, I shall write you another letter, and another after that. Is it cheating, to put my next two reassurances in one letter? Would you miss it from my next? I will not deny you; consider my words an excess of enthusiasm, rather than an advance on the future.

How providential, that two people in your life should share the same name; is this a sign that I was meant to enter it, or a sign that I am an interloper, since the other one of my name was there first? I choose to believe the former, and I suspect you do as well. I have no one else in my life named Viktor, only you, and I believe that is as it should be. You are utterly singular, my dear, whereas I am excessively ordinary.

Phichit would scold me. That is my friend, the one I told you of. He has little patience for me when I run myself down, which happens more often than he would wish. He would tell me that I am special, that there is no one like me in the world, and that I should value myself as highly as he values me. He is a good friend; I have never had one quite like him, before or since meeting him.

I believe I will take the advice his specter has given me. You have chosen to give me your time, and I assume, or at least I hope, that you are not in the habit of declaring yourself besotted with every ordinary soul you come across, and demanding that they write you letters. I, perhaps foolishly, consider myself singular in that regard, and so I should choose to believe myself worthy of it. I trust your judgement. What do you think?

Yuuri

\--

May 15, 1880

Yuuri,

Your friend Phichit sounds very wise. I applaud your decision to believe him when he says you are unique. You are correct in assuming that I do not require correspondence from every person I meet, and that there is something special and singular about you that causes your letters to be vital to my continued person. You are unlike anyone else I have ever met, my dearest Yuuri, and it pains me that you struggle with seeing it.

I know we have sworn to be honest with each other, and so I must tell you that it makes me slightly uneasy, that you seem to have so little regard for yourself. Do you really think yourself so excessively ordinary that my regard seems extraordinary? Must you rely on my opinion of you, rather than your own opinion of yourself? Or perhaps you know full well that you are exquisite, and sought merely to extract some flattery from me. If that is the case, you need not resort to such subterfuge. I am more than happy to shower compliments upon you with little provocation; all you need do is ask, and you shall be deluged with flattery.

I worry that I have come across as overly harsh, but I have lingered long enough over this letter, and I would not keep you waiting any longer than absolutely necessary. Know that whatever the situation may be, you are utterly singular in my esteem.

Viktor

\--

July 20, 1880

Viktor,

I fear you have read some matter into my last letter that I did not intend. I confess I was rather taken aback upon reading your response, and not a little stung. If you will recall, I ended my last letter with the assertion that I would choose to think myself as specially worthy of your regard, and so your words of encouragement that I think better of myself were somewhat unnecessary. I confess that I was attempting to playfully extract some flattery from you with my solicitation of your opinion; had I known it would so discomfit you, I would have refrained.

I must clear up the matter of my opinion of myself. It is true that I think myself ordinary, nothing special in my own right, but this does not mean I have a low opinion of myself. It means that I consider myself to be average, which by definition indicates that I do not think myself worthless. It is true that I can see little in myself that would warrant your utter enchantment that night, but I do believe that it happened; I do not need to understand it to accept it. It is you who equated ‘ordinary’ with ‘lesser,’ not me.

As I wrote to you some time ago, silence fills me with fear. This is not the only way my mind plays tricks on me. I will never think highly of myself, but this does not mean that I must therefore think the worst of myself. I am sorry if this upsets you, but it has been true my entire life up until now, and seems unlikely to change. If this is unacceptable to you, best we discover it now, and not later. I hope it is not unacceptable to you. I will write to you again.

Yuuri

\--

September 21, 1880

My Yuuri,

Forgive me. Looking back at the letter in question, I can see now that you are correct, and I misinterpreted your meaning. From your justified reaction, I fear I became somewhat condescending in my concern, which has been known to happen. Little Yura despairs of me on that point. I hope you can forgive me for that. I will endeavour to ensure it does not happen again.

I am glad to hear that I was wrong in my impression of your self-regard. I have never been comfortable around self-deprecation; I am like your friend Phichit in that sense, I think. And yet I am guilty of running my own self down on more than one occasion; if you ever meet my friend Chris, he will have stories for you, should you wish to hear them.

Stories of many varieties, now I come to think of it. You will have to be specific in your request. And discerning in your listening; I do not trust him to be entirely truthful when speaking to someone I hold dear. He is far too likely to embellish; whether to make me sound better or worse than I am will depend on his mood that day.

I hope this interlude does not put you off our vow of honesty. I overreacted, and as I said above, I will endeavour not to do it again. Please do not feel you need to hold back any truths from me; as I told you, I want to know everything about you, every detail, at all times.

Viktor

\--

November 28, 1880

My dear,

All is forgiven. I was not without fault either. I beg you, do not dwell on it. It is forgotten, and nothing has changed in terms of how I feel for you.

It was cold enough for us to go skating last week, and so we went. Mari felt a twinge in her knee early on and removed herself to the side, but the rest of us spent several hours out upon the ice. I missed Phichit; we would go skating together at school, and most of what skill I have in skating was gained in competition with him. I far outstrip the rest of my family, and so when we go together I do not skate to the fullness of my ability. It is no hardship; keeping my mother upright and moving forward is its own joy. All the same, sometimes I sneak off and skate on my own, just to see how much of my old skill I still have.

Nothing would bring me greater joy than to skate with you. I would settle for simply existing in the same room as you, of course. That is a lie; I would settle for writing you letters for the rest of my life, which is what I will do. To exist in the same room as you, to touch you, would be a gift; to skate with you would be a blessing beyond description.

There is another Russian party at the inn. I debated whether or not to tell you this, although there is no reason for hesitation. I have yet to fall in love with any of them, and I do not think I will, in the week remaining in their visit. The closest one to me in age is still a decade off, and he is not nearly so charming or handsome as you. You have nothing to fear. I will write to you again.

Yuuri

\--

January 25, 1881

Yuuri,

I am glad to hear none of my countrymen have yet managed to steal your heart from me. If anyone could do it, it would be a Russian; you seem particularly susceptible to our charms. Nonetheless, I shall not fear. I trust you, as I hope you trust me; we shall be true to one another.

I would love to go skating with you, my dearest Yuuri. I love to skate, and now that you have put the idea in my mind, I shall not rest easily until I have seen all that you are able to do upon the ice. No doubt you are as beautiful on the ice as you are off it, and infinitely more graceful, if such a thing is possible. When we see each other again, skating together must be one of the first things we do.

Little Yura has been staying with me for two weeks, and is due to stay for two weeks more, while his family’s house is renovated. Thoughts of skating with you have been a welcome distraction. He is family, and I love him both for our kinship and his own self, but he has not grown fonder of me and nearly every word from his mouth is profane. It is trying, to say the least.

You will notice fewer letters in this packet than the normal amount, and for that I am sorry. Father has begun transferring some aspects of the business to me, and I have been kept busier than I have ever been. I have not had as much time to set pen to paper as I had before, but know that thoughts of you are as plentiful as they have been since we met.

Your Viktor

\--

April 29, 1881

Viktor,

Please forgive me the lateness of this letter. Cowardice has stayed my hand every time I picked up a pen to write it. I fear you will not like what I have to say, but know that need alone has driven me to say it. We cannot keep doing this.

I am sorry, but I cannot continue this way. Living letter to letter can be no more sustainable for you than it has proven for me. We have been living in a dream, but now, I am sorry to say, I am waking up.

I hope this will not cause you too much pain; I hope that, in time, you will come to relish your freedom from the rose-tinted memories of a single night, and that you will look back on our acquaintance without bitterness, as I shall do. Best to leave it while it is still beautiful, instead of dragging it out over the rest of our lives, until all love is lost.

I am sorry. Please know that it is nothing you have done. I do not know if I will write again; I suspect that I will not.

Yuuri

\--

November 1, 1884

Viktor,

Oh Viktor, Viktor, are you still there? Have I lost you? I will do anything, just say I have not lost you.

So much has happened. I nearly married in the time since last I wrote to you, to the daughter of the family who lives next to us. Just this morning she told me she chose my competitor, Nishigori, and I nearly began to weep. I did weep, once she had gone, but not from despair. From relief, that I did not have to write you and tell you that I was married.

I thought it would be easier, to find someone closer to home, someone I can touch and be with, and properly marry. It has been so hard, Viktor, so hard these years just writing to you. I missed you so much I thought I would die, and so I thought it best to end it. But it wasn’t easier, not at all, and I know now that I should always choose the pain of loving you over the ease of giving up. Say you will forgive me, say I have not lost you, and I swear I shall never waver again. I will love you from a distance, and never touch another, and be content in my physical solitude.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I knew that before but it took me this long to be certain. I shall write to you again and again, if only you will reply to this letter.

Yuuri

\--

January 29, 1885

Yuuri,

I, too, wept, when I went through my mail and saw your name. I was all but certain that you would never write again, that I had lost you for a sin I could not identify or recall. Now I see that you hurt me due to your own fears, and not due to something I did. There is a strange sort of relief in that, to know that my heart was broken through no fault of my own.

For you did break my heart, Yuuri, I cannot conceal that. It should come as no surprise, though I know now it was not your intent. I have treasured the break, in truth, and not allowed it to heal; it was, as I thought, my last memory of you, and I would not have traded it for the world.

It has been some weeks since I penned the above, and I have come to a decision. I am willing to be healed. I will trade my last memory of you for a new one, since you seem so willing to give it. I will forgive you, for I find myself as unwilling to stop loving you as I was the day you decided to stop loving me.

I hope this letter finds you well. I know not what else to say.

Viktor

\--

April 5, 1885

Viktor,

Your letter finds me well, indeed. All the better for having a response from you; I confess I have been low in spirits for - well. For three years.

You have forgiven me, and that is a gift I dared not ask for. Know that I will never forgive myself, as a guard against hurting you again. I would not hurt you again for the world. If I could take back the initial hurt, know that I would, no matter the price.

I too find it difficult to decide on words to set down, on what to say to you. How is little Yura? He must be fully grown by now, and not little in the least. Is he still as irritable as ever? Does he still view you as the source of all that is disagreeable in the world? How is your father, and your business? I would know every detail of your life that I have missed, dear one. I do not know if you feel the same, but I will give you all the details I have held back, in hopes that you find them interesting.

My mother and father are well. Mother had a bout of illness that scared us all, but she has recovered admirably and has been back on her feet for a full year now. My sister is gone, traveling the world in the company of a woman, an engineer who agreed to take her on as apprentice. The inn is doing well. We have a party from Tokyo that comes regularly, every six months, and that has been a great boon financially. I have been working steadily on the matter, and I believe I can soon convince my parents to take their first vacation in decades. They miss Mari, and she last wrote to say she would be in Japan this summer, and I am attempting to convince them to leave the inn in my care for a few weeks to meet her, for her schedule does not allow her to come here.

I fear that none of this is of interest to you, and yet I must fill the page with words. I have suppressed them for three years, and now that they can once again spill out, I find that they can shape nothing of consequence. Forgive me. If you wish it, I shall write again.

Yuuri

\--

June 10, 1885

Yuuri,

All your words are of interest to me. Everything about you interests me, and always has. The intervention of three years’ silence has only made me more desperate for the tiniest scrap of detail about your life. I hope you manage to sway your parents to visit your sister; from the sounds of it, they have more than earned a vacation, and if anyone were up to the challenge of running a prosperous inn by themselves, it would be you.

Yura is well. You are correct in that he is no longer little, but I still call him Little Yura to vex him, and he curses me more affectionately than he once did. He is growing into a fine young man, and he has even made a friend of his own, a musician. We are all exceedingly proud of him. My father is well, and the business thrives. He nears retirement, and most of the running of it has fallen to me. I daresay I am doing a creditable job; at least, my father has not been able to devise a complaint in some months. This is equivalent to the highest praise, from him.

I miss you. It borders on the absurd to say it; I have missed you every day for six years, it is nothing new to miss you now. All the same, I miss you. I miss the ease with which we used to write each other, but I have faith it will return in time. You and I are destined for each other, and letters are our fate until such time as we can be together again, and so our former easiness will return. It must.

Viktor

\--

August 15, 1885

Viktor,

I wish I had your faith that we would meet again. I confess, I do not believe we will. I think we were granted one perfect night to spend in each other’s company, and I would not trade it for the world. This is not to say that I do not want to see you again; indeed, I wish for it more than anything, but I have not your faith. All this is to say: as you miss me, I also miss you.

We will regain our ease, of that I do have faith. There has been a disruption; it is natural that we should be some time in settling down again. Everything is thrown into disarray after an earthquake, but that does not mean we cannot set it to rights again. This is too important to give up on. I more than anyone know that, having attempted to give it up myself. I believe you when you say we were destined for each other, and I do not believe we were destined for stilted, awkward letters forever. Only for a time. With each word, the next comes easier, and soon they shall flow like water.

My parents did take their vacation, and came home full of stories to tell about Mari. She is thriving, they say, and I was glad to hear it. I am also glad to hear of Yura’s friend. I hope they will be good influences on each other. I will write to you again.

Yuuri

\--

October 20, 1885

Dear Yuuri,

I am sending a party your way. My friend from Switzerland, Christophe, has some business to attend to in Tokyo, and has agreed to visit your inn after it is done. In truth, I did not convince him; rather, he convinced me to tell him the name of your inn, and announced his intentions as a fait accompli. Once I told him you and I were back in contact, he became even more convinced to meet you. He should be there in December; I hope this letter reaches you before he does. 

I confess myself jealous to the point of distraction. To think he should get to see you, to exist near you, when I cannot; it is almost unbearable. Please be as unenchanting and bland as possible, my dearest, for if he falls in love with you too I may have to kill him, and he is still my only friend.

This letter is too short to send, but if it has any hope of reaching you before he does, I must send it now. Do not fall in love with him, I beg you.

Viktor

\--

January 3, 1886

Viktor,

In fact your letter did not reach me before your friend; he preceded it by two days. Really, my love, I know you were in a rush, but you might have warned me about - well, about him. In revenge I have delayed my letter until he departed.

No, in truth it was not revenge. He merely kept me so busy I did not have the chance to put pen to paper until now. Your friend is a character, but I think even if I had never met you there would be no danger of my falling in love with him; we are unsuited for one another in that respect. I could barely keep up with him when all he was demanding were guided tours of Hasetsu; I would have been utterly left in the dust had he demanded romance as well. No, dearest one, my heart is still yours.

I wonder, sometimes, what would happen if someone were to come across these letters, filled with such confessions as they are. Now you know that I keep all of your letters as treasured possessions - do you do the same with mine, I wonder? We would both be ruined, no doubt. But then, if neither of us had obligations elsewhere, would we be free to be together? Would it be a blessing in disguise?

I will write to you again.

Yuuri

\--

March 7, 1886

My Yuuri,

No one else can see these letters. If someone other than us were to open one, they would see a blank sheet of paper, or perhaps a list of some kind, something inconsequential, but no one ever will. They belong to us; they exist for us alone.

I am sorry for not warning you about Christophe. I did consider it, but ultimately decided that no words I could form would do him justice, and that it would be better to let you experience him firsthand, rather than prejudicing you towards him first. Not that it would have mattered, in the end, but that was my intent. That, and the fact that explaining him would take several hours’ worth of writing at the least, and I was trying to get the letter off as soon as possible. Forgive me.

Of course I keep your letters, my Yuuri. I go back and read over them again whenever I miss you too terribly, which is often; I can still hear your voice when I look at your words. When we are together again we shall pool our collections, and have our whole story laid out to reread whenever we like. It had never occurred to me that you might not be keeping my letters; I am glad to hear that you do.

I have sent you my friend; now I demand in return that you send me yours. You told me once that Phichit was like to steal away to Russia without warning, but that was years ago. I am not frequently in Siam for business, but perhaps I will have to make a special trip. What do you think?

Your Viktor

\--

May 15, 1886

Viktor,

I am sorry to report that you shall have to be thwarted in your desire to meet Phichit. His business has not been doing well the past few years, and he has not the funds to make the trip. Know that he has written to me often of his desire to meet you; that shall have to suffice. He writes so sadly that I would send him the funds myself, were it not for the fact that if I had such a sum, I would use it to come to you myself, friendship be damned.

Speaking of friendship, how do Little Yura and his musician friend get along? It has been some time since you told me anything of my namesake; I hope it does not mean he is unwell, or there has been some falling out. And how is your father? You write of him more often, but it seems wrong to ask after your cousin and not your father, so I shall do both.

Spring is blooming here; it makes me think of you. Perhaps that is strange, as you were here in the dead of winter. Winter makes me think of you too, the silver of your hair reflected in the snow, the glint of your eyes in the ice. In truth, I think of you in every season, but winter and spring bring you to mind the most. I have always thought spring the most beautiful of seasons; perhaps that is why.

Write back to me quickly, that I may write to you again the sooner.

Yuuri

\--

July 20, 1886

Yuuri,

Little Yura is well. I am sorry to have worried you with his absence from my letters; it is only that he is settling into manhood quite well, and has fewer adventures for me to pen down. His musician friend thrives as well; they dine together most nights, and he has my father’s expressed approval, which is rare.

Winter is my favorite season, have I ever told you that? I relish the cold, the bite in the air. It makes everything surprising, and adds a sense of victory to any venture out of doors. Father calls me childish for it, but that does not dissuade me. You, my love, are a creature of autumn; warm tones and the crunch of leaves underfoot, forever on the cusp of something breathtaking and beloved. You are the warmth of the fire when it is cold outside. I love you.

I love you, and I think it shall be summer when we meet again, halfway between my spring and your autumn. I should like that. I should like to see you at any time of the year, of course, and whenever we meet, there will be a summer after that. All the same, I think there would be something poetic in a summer reunion, after our winter meeting.

I miss you terribly. Tell me of your family, in exchange for my words about my own. How is your sister? How does the inn fare in the warmer months? As is so often my refrain, I wish to know everything.

Viktor

\--

September 30, 1886

Viktor,

I am glad to hear that Little Yura is doing well. I confess I had managed to work myself into a state on his behalf, and your letter served as a balm. All your letters do, of course, but this most recent one in particular.

The inn slows during the summer months, as is to be expected, but not terribly so. We do not want for business at any point during the year; the distinction is that it is only in winter that we can be called properly busy. The party from Tokyo still comes every six months, and we have a scattered few other regulars. We prosper, but not enough to send me abroad. In addition to missing you, it has been some time since I was able to see Phichit in person.

Mari is doing well. Last we heard, she had graduated from apprentice to full partner. The woman she trained under is hard at work on an invention of some kind or another. Mari’s letters never linger on what exactly it is they are making, but what little she does say I am unable to understand, so perhaps it is for the best. My parents, too, are well, except when my father grows too adventurous in the kitchen and we are all sickened as a result. This happens more often than my mother or I would like.

I have deliberately avoided your discussion of what season would be best for our reunion, you have no doubt noticed. I agree with you that a summer reunion would be most poetic. Beyond that, all I can say is that I would take you in any season, no matter the weather, and count myself beyond fortunate. I will write again.

Yuuri

\--

December 13, 1886

Yuuri,

Have I ever told you how grateful I am that you have kept your promise to me, to always tell me that you will write again? Our lives have changed so much over the years; that single point of continuity grounds me whenever I find myself lost in the tide.

I take your point about the weather, and I grant that you are correct. My joy in seeing you again will not be lessened by whatever the sky happens to be doing at that moment. It could rain every day for the rest of our lives, once we meet again, and I would not care so long as every day also contained you. Nonetheless, I hope it is a day as beautiful in appearance as it will be in its events. We deserve nothing less.

Little Yura and his friend are going on a tour of Europe. It is to be Yura’s last hurrah of youth; once they return, my father intends to begin training him in earnest. He will learn whatever he can in my father’s retirement, and then his education will fall to me, for as long as I helm the family business. Once he is ready, I intend to leave it all to him and swan off to a resort town in Japan, though he does not know that. He is a quick study, when he sets his mind to it; I have the utmost faith in him.

No doubt he will do a better job than I, for you are always in my thoughts, and he has no such distraction. It is a wonder I have not driven the business into the ground for thinking of you.

Your Viktor

\--

February 18, 1887

Viktor,

I have just finished your most recent letter, and it has put me in a strange mood. Not a bad one; no letter of yours could ever darken my day, but it is strange nonetheless. I read your signature at the bottom, and was struck again by a question that has haunted me, I confess, since the first time I wrote to you.

Shall I tell you what it is? I will. It is this: How is it that we have not kissed? I remember every detail of that night, and we did not lack for opportunities. When you put your hand to my cheek for the first time, we might have kissed then, or any of the following times you did so. When the cloud that looked like a dolphin passed over the moon, I felt your eyes on my face, and turned to meet them - you might have kissed me then, or I you. Why, then, did we not?

I remember the final time you put your hand to my face. One finger brushed my lip, I remember, and I became overwhelmed with the desire to know what it tasted like. You let me taste it, if you will recall. How is it that I have taken your finger into my mouth, caressed it with my tongue, and yet we have not kissed? I am filled with a longing to kiss you, more so than is usual when I receive a packet of your letters, and I am furious with our past selves for not taking the chance when it was presented to us. It was our only opportunity, and we squandered it on meaningful glances and light-hearted words. What good are words, next to kisses? I would trade every word I have ever spoken and will ever speak, for the opportunity to kiss you.

But that is not a trade it is possible to make. I am thwarted, and I am angry. Angry at myself, and angry at you, for you are so much bolder than I am, and yet you did not kiss me. Tell me you would strike the same bargain I would, beloved, or tell me you had no desire to kiss me then and no desire to kiss me now. Those are your only two options, given the state I am in. Either way, I shall write to you again.

Your Yuuri

\--

April 20, 1887

Beloved,

Never doubt me. I would happily strike that bargain, without a moment’s hesitation, if I believed that night were our only chance to kiss. But I do not believe that, you know I do not. I have never doubted that we will meet again.

I did not kiss you that night because I feared to break the spell. I felt that if I took my eyes off you for one moment, even to close them in a kiss, I would lose you, and I could not bring myself to risk it. If I had known my cowardice would torment you so, I would have been bolder. Know that not a day goes by in which I do not want to kiss you. That has been true since before you took my finger between your teeth, you know; it has been true since the day we met, a full week before that night.

Yuuri, dearest one, love of my life, we shall meet again. How can you not know that? I will come to you, I have told you I will come to you, and I mean to keep my word. You know me to be a man of my word, and yet you doubt me when I tell you this. Very well, I shall put it into specifics. Today I am thirty-five years old, and I make you this promise: I shall retire at forty. It will be possible; the business is thriving, and I have a keen head for investments and opportunities. In five years’ time I will retire, and pass the business along to my young cousin, who shall be ready for it then. And then I will come to you and lay myself at your feet, and kiss you, if you still wish me to. You will drown in my kisses, I shall kiss you until you grow weary of the taste.

Five years, beloved. Can you wait for me for five more years? It will be Midsummer by the time you receive this letter. On the fifth Midsummer hence, if you wish it, I shall be at your disposal. I swear it.

Your Viktor

\--

June 21, 1887

Dear Viktor,

Five years, you say. I can wait five years. I have waited eight; I can stand five more, now that I know there is an end in sight.

Can this be? Are you truly willing to end your business life early, to spend your days in an insignificant inn in another country? I suppose it is not so strange, for a man to retire to a hot spring. But my head and heart are both spinning, and I find it difficult to believe. But I see now that my refusal to believe you before now has hurt you, and I swore not to hurt you again. I shall believe you when you say you are coming, and I shall wait for you in perfect confidence. I doubted in order to protect myself, but for you, I can be brave. I believe you. I believe in you.

What have I done to deserve you? What can I have ever done, in this life or any other, to deserve such a love as you have given me? I do not know. I suspect I can never know. I suspect I do not deserve you, not in truth; no saint who ever lived could have deserved such devotion. I no longer doubt that I have it, although in my darkest days I once did. It is as you say: we were made for each other, deservedness be damned, and I can wait five years to have you again. It is not so long as it sounds.

Forgive my ramblings. In truth, I am near delirious; twice already my mother has asked me what has happened to make me smile so. If only I could tell her that I smile because five years from now, there shall be a meeting, and the result of that meeting shall ensure my smiles for the rest of my life.

I love you, my dearest one. I shall write to you again, and I shall see you in five years.

Your Yuuri

\--

_ Epilogue _

April 12, 1894

Phichit,

I am enclosing in this letter a ticket. I say this first, because I have seen you open letters and I know what you do to the envelopes. Have a care with this one; it contains more than this sheet. The ticket is for the date we discussed; if it no longer suits, take it to the shipyard and see if they will exchange it for another.

This will be rather a short letter, I am afraid; I shall make it up to you in conversation when you are here. Viktor is desperate to meet you, and seems to think my sending the ticket sooner will make you arrive sooner. I have told him that steamships do not work that way, but he will not listen. He holds the dog up to his face and makes imploring eyes at me, and so I must send you your ticket sooner rather than later; it is not a face to be denied. You will see when you arrive.

Yuuri


End file.
